


Maybe you're my fantasy

by ohmisterjapan



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmisterjapan/pseuds/ohmisterjapan
Summary: Let's be real: Rio takes every opportunity to flirt.He likes to flirt in the same way that he's seen some other men flex their muscles. He likes beingnot someone's typeand making them want him anyway. He likes beingexactly their typeand fucking with their expectations. He likes to rattle nerves, to unsettle; he likes to undo things. He likes a little chaos because chaos has always meant opportunity to him.





	Maybe you're my fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> Rio POV, or: Rio discovers he's a switch

Let's be real: Rio takes every opportunity to flirt.

He likes to flirt in the same way that he's seen some other men flex their muscles. He likes being _not someone's type_ and making them want him anyway. He likes being _exactly their type_ and fucking with their expectations. He likes to rattle nerves, to unsettle; he likes to undo things. He likes a little chaos because chaos has always meant opportunity to him.

It's a habit at this point. Sex is part of his arsenal now. You don't get to where he is without arrogance, and arrogance is the best part about sex - or it _was_ , it had been for a long while now. Anyway, it's a habit. He did it with his teachers - even got close to fucking one, he thinks. And now he works with women often - it's not as unusual as people seem to assume, but maybe people just aren't looking for opportunities in the way he does. He'd flirt with men too if it might be advantageous, if he thought he'd be any good at it, but admits it might be a little out of his range. 

It's fun, and when does he get to have fun anymore? He can't even play a game of fucking cards without one of his guys making it about business. Sure, they crack jokes, but he doesn't often get to _win_. Flirting is fun because he gets to play _and he wins_. What does winning look like? How far does it go? To be honest, it's not really about a score card in _that_ way - it's much more about the intangible. And then, like chewing gum, eventually what happens is that the flavour goes - and you're just going through the motions; chewing rubber. Eventually the reality of a person seeps through into his projections and he's once again underwhelmed by mediocrity.

Too often the idea of someone far outshines the actual person. Thats what objectifying is really - and of course he's done it. And he knows when it's happening to him: white girls all keening for him to speak Spanish that they don't even fucking understand, or caught up in some fantasy that they're fucking a gangbanger,  _but they are,_ and _he is._ So he gets it, and they can both do that; they're consenting adults after all. So he's fucked women in bathrooms before Elizabeth and with less history, sometimes necessarily so, and he's gotten himself worked up over the tits of some waitress, or a teacher at Marcus's school -  _so what if he has a thing for teachers -_  before he notices that they literally cannot spell. And he's fucked a few girls who performed like porn stars, and he can work with that too - he can get off on anything, really, if the circumstances are right. He _knows_  that arousal is in the mind, that's why he knows how to talk dirty - what a waste not to - knows how to root around for someone's fantasy and press down on it when he finds it. It's so delicious to watch it unfold within them, this kinky little knot that only he can untie. 

But none of that exactly happened with Elizabeth; this is different somehow. And the thought flickers in his mind that maybe _she_ untied _him_ ,but he doesn't dwell on it.

_____

Because actually his introduction to sex was pretty fucking healthy, considering. So sweet that when he thinks back on it now it feels like a raw nerve. A lot of clumsiness, and no vocabulary. And what he lacked in knowledge of how to please a woman he made up for with good intentions. So - he knows now - she certainly didn't come but she was well loved by him, and actually that's a part of him that fell away with time.

He first saw a woman orgasm much later  - a different thing to what he'd seen in porn or heard in bravado. She had been two grades above him in high school, but they'd both finished high school by then. She lived two blocks over and sometimes, he can't remember why, he'd go over to her house and it'd be just the two of them. She was lying on her bed and she had put on porn, and as she touched herself he watched slow, raw pleasure move through her body in the build up as pretences fell away, melted off her, dripped from her. He watched tension and release, curls and uncurls, and all the involuntary movements and sensations. He fucking _loves_ the involuntary. It speaks to how he likes to unlock chaos and walk away. He's been called a control freak before and it felt like such a misunderstanding of him - he's all about self control but he doesn't want to control others. It's more that he enjoys revealing to them how little they can control themselves. It's more that he likes to stand still in the eye of someone else's storm and pick coldly through the wreckage. But watching her - he still replays it in his mind sometimes - that unlocked something deep in him. _Oh_.

And so he definitely remembers, less than two months later, when he drew one out of her himself - tentatively, with coaching, with humility and embarrassment - and what was he embarrassed about? he thinks now - it's one of his most vivid memories. The rise and fall of her chest, the way she gripped his wrist, her breath hard into his neck. Afterwards he pounces on her and almost loses himself - that part of the memory stings - he feels himself falling and falling into her and she wasn't someone he really _liked_ that much and so that terrified him. Made him doubt himself, and this new kind of lust, and power, and so he doesn't see her again after that.  

Since then there have been countless women and countless orgasms, and some he cared about more than others, some he was happy to let slide, some he took aggressively, some he gave as a gift. But it was most often all about his whim, and if they didn't _really_ , he thinks, that's not his loss. He did his part, he asked, he watched, he learned.  

_____

So then there's Elizabeth, whose reality _didn't_ disappoint against his projection. But instead filled in his rough sketch suspicions brighter, bolder, more creatively. She took risks and they paid off. Even when she had veered away and broken rules that he'd made absolute for himself, somehow she managed to get results. She reminded him that she can do things he can't - because she's a woman, because she's white as, because she's in the PTA - but also because _she's something else_. 

And he's been flirting with her from the start, out of habit, but it's snowballed because now he admires her and that means they get ahead of themselves and now he's in danger because he's not sure who's caught up in the idea of whom. _And maybe it's as simple and rare as: they see each other._

But they're not in the same world. They're protagonists in different movies - different _genres_. And it's impossible to reconcile, except they're pulling one another closer and eventually, it seems like, something is going to pin their fabrics together. 

It's not that he wants to own her, it's that _he sees her_ and he knows he fucking sees her in a way that others don't and it's not because _he's_ special. It's not just because he's creative or he has vision, although he knows that he does. It's like the antithesis of how mediocre men attribute themselves to the discovery of women - as being 'exotic', as funny, as _actually pretty clever,_ or good at their jobs - centre themselves in someone else's story. Instead - Rio watches her unfold into herself and is filled with a deep loathing for the whole world that refuses to get out of the way, underestimates her - he rejects it all. And so it's not that he wants her as _his_ , it's that he doesn't want to see her belong to _anyone_ , to succumb to anything. He wants for her what he wants for himself, he sees her as the protagonist, he recognises her.

But is he jealous? Like, needy? That's different. Sometimes he looks at her face and it's so beautiful that he's not sure what to do. What are you supposed to do when something is beautiful to you? He remembers when Marcus was born and he looked at his tiny family in the hospital and he was paralysed by its beauty, its pureness. He's never known what to do with that - found himself looking in on himself from outside his body and deemed unworthy. 

And so he knows she's with Dean and its complicated - does he begrudge her loving him? No, he's not a child. He doesn't have a childish understanding of love. That fell away when he watched his family disintegrate, slip like sand through his fingers, _despite_ the love. Despite _everyone's_ love poured into it like a sewer draining into the ocean. 

Is he jealous, though, when she's fucking him? When she's cooking him breakfast? When she chooses to bend to his will, instead of  _anything_ else? He won't answer that. And so fine - maybe he'll force her then. He's not going to be proud of it - but he can work that out later. 

Because he thought he had her worked out, thought he'd cracked it when he found her pearls on the door - he'd come _hard_ thinking about it, before he paid her a visit - that he was the devil she had summoned to her doorway. He thought about how he'd do it too - fuck her roughly, bent over something domestic, rubbing hard on her clit, taking her orgasm from her. Or maybe she'd want to play it more coy than that - although he doubted it - maybe she'd want to play wifey, crawl on all fours to him - _and can't he just picture her heavy tits swinging_ \- and beg a little for his cock. That always makes him twitch. But that's _not_ her kink, because even when they _had_ fucked she'd come and found _him_ , dared him to meet her needs and he had stepped up because it came easy. It always comes easy. But then things didn't quite unfold as he thought they would. 

And so when she's behind her desk, taking fifty percent from him, he knows he should be simply angry at being humiliated, but he feels his cock twitch, and things don't feel simple, and he's happy to lean into it, willing to see where this goes. He throws out something sexually aggressive and knows she wont bite, won't be manipulated. He admits to himself, finally, that that isn't her fantasy, although it takes a while to acknowledge the connection between that feeling and his cock straining all the drive home, then forty minutes later stroking himself to orgasm, barely standing inside his doorway - and he doesn't even need to draw on his own fantasy to get him there he's just fucking _charged_. He learns something new about himself and what he's willing to do.

Because there's been something dormant inside him, something that's only stirred before that's now awakening. Something that complicates the connection between his anger and his lust. Because fucking is forcefulness but it's also surrender. He's fucked women before and pretended it isn't - doubled down on coldness after the act - but he's not void of empathy, he has given something of himself, too, even if he takes it right back. But with Elizabeth he feels her take it, hold it in her steady palm and set it down someplace, safe. Sometimes they both come too fast: so fast that he'd doubt her except he feels it himself, and he knows that she isn't one to take less than she's owed - not with him, anyway.

He's finding it hard to establish the boundaries of it: understand what he's dealing with exactly. They don't feel like deliberate actions although he means them almost more. The involuntary. The chaos. 

There are very few women who've wanted him to whisper sweet nothings - they'd rather the bitter and violent nothings, in his experience. Or maybe they just aren't the women who come to him. And so in her bed that night he realises he isn't doing it for her he's doing it for him. Things he's never fucking admitted to himself. And it's a relief, putting his power in her hands, removing the burden to someone else, someone _more_. 


End file.
